


Worth it

by ladymischief



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Cinnamon Roll Newt Scamander, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Oneshot, Original Percival Graves Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 22:07:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9924089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymischief/pseuds/ladymischief
Summary: Slowly, his mind came back to the present, put at ease as he was embraced in the warmth and reassurance of life. Which so happened to come in the form of a lanky magizoologist sitting on his lap, one arm wrapped tightly around his body, hand stroking his hair, and the other clutching his hand that was pressed against the vested chest as gentle reassurances and sweet nothings were whispered in his ear. Needless to say, Percival Graves was a little more than surprised.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came about when I was doodling a bit of Newt :') if you're interested:  
> http://axilarts.tumblr.com/post/157646006671/welp-ended-up-doodling-this-little-cinnamon-roll

It was late into the evening and a one Percival Graves was still glued to his chair, hand gripping a quill and eyes staring at the blur of lettering which made up the form he had to sign. To anyone else, he was intently studying the document.

He’s been sitting there for the past half hour, eyes slipping on the letters as it blurred into a sea of grey. To everyone’s knowledge, the director of magical security was back on his feet, pushing through months of neglected paperwork with the sheer force of his stubborn will. He had come back to work two weeks prior, ignoring all suggestions by the president to take a break. A well deserved holiday, really. But how was he supposed to do that when months and months of paperwork had basically been pushed aside and left to fester? No, it wasn't worth it, and he had responsibilities as well as a strong work ethic. It definitely wasn’t because sitting in his house made him feel like he was being suffocated by the memories of darkness and pain. It wasn’t as if he was bothered by the knowledge that his furniture, personal belongings, the very air was poisoned by the toxic imprint of the darkest wizard of all time. No. He couldn’t have them thinking he’d become lazy, or Merlin forbid, broken. Because he definitely wasn’t. And he refused to be treated like an object that would be shattered by the faintest touch or weight.

An object without worth. That was why when everyone else had vacated the building, beckoned by the warmth of home, he remained in his office with only the sound of the ticking clock as company. He shook his head, straightening slightly before blinking the fatigue out of his eyes. Scooting his chair closer, Graves bent over the document, clutching it with one hand and resting his chin on the other. His eyes scanned the page for what must have been the thousandth time, reading over the report with all the enthusiasm of a child being asked to sit through a lecture.

It was about the kidnapping of a wizard child, their family in confusion and grief after having found out. They were frantic when their daughter hadn’t come home, asking all acquaintances after her potential location. It was after the third day that they reported, desperately in need of help. Graves hadn’t been in charge at the time; they eventually found the girl. Looking through the case file, he was almost glad for it, though guilt immediately making his gut clench. The scene was gruesome. Even through the images he felt his stomach churn at the sight. There was barely a body to bring back.

The abandoned warehouse she had been found in was dark, falling apart and filled with crates upon crates of illegal items. Parts harvested from magical creatures and humans alike, all strictly banned and penalized. The room she had been locked in was more like a cellar- a mere supplies closet with an extension charm that led to an area of… experimentation.

The walls were a harsh white, amplified by the cold lights. The bright red of blood had splattered against their pristine surfaces, an eyesore when looked at for too long. The wall at the far back had chains to ensure no escape. Their once polished silver was dull with rust and the crust of old dried blood. A surgical table was bolted to the middle of the room, its surface was a dark brown that was stained with the life of its victims. It was there that she was found, ripped open, the expression of terror and pain etched onto her delicate face.

Just like that, her life was extinguished. Taken like a mere item and tortured for days, which soon lead to weeks. Her body had been desecrated and treated like an animal in line for slaughter.

She must have been so scared. Alone and without the comfort of knowing when the torture was going to end. If they were just going to keep cutting into her, taking pieces of skin and mus _cle and bones and blood. And everything hurt. The lights were too bright, the room was spinning._

_There was nowhere to run. Nowhere._

_Alone and in pain. Oh god, the pain. It had him gasping and seizing like a man drowning. Mere hours had blurred into days, and weeks, then months– How long had he been here? How long had they not noticed–_

_Oh god. He was going to die. Everything hurt so much it only made sense._

_He was going to die alone and in pain. His body would be left to rot, hidden away for the rest of all time as that bastard stole his **face** – _

_He gave everything for his country, for his men- for the people who worked with him. He used to think it was worth the sacrifice. He took hits meant for others, shouldered the responsibility of death and failure. Held the pride and safety of those under him in the steady wave of his hand, the methodical twist of his magic. He fought for them-_ bled _for them-_

_-and he would die. Alone and forgotten._

_How could they? How could they-howcouldtheyhowcouldthe- He jerked at the sound of a door opening, body wracked in a shudder. Merlin, no. Not again- he couldn’t withstand another round of torture! And so soon?! **Why was he already back** _

_His broken fingers scrabbled against the floor for purchase, body shifting painfully further into the wall. A thought entered his head, unbidden because_ was keeping the secrets locked tightly within the darkest reaches of his mind really worth all the pain and suffering he was going through? Was it really worth protecting the people who did even **recognize the face greeting them every morning was Grindelwald?!** Was it worth resisting? _He whimpered when the sound of footsteps echoed against the walls, as his movements became more jerky- frantic._

_“Hello, darling”_

_His mouth gaped open in a soundless gasp and- PAIN PAIN PAIN **PAIN PAIN**_

_**RED AND HOT AND RAGING LIKE MOLTEN LAVA INJECTED INTO HIS VEINS, BURNING HIM FROM INSIDE OUT, SCORCHING UNTIL CAPILLARIES AND VESSELS BURST, ORGANS MELTING INTO A POOL OF RED** _

_**STOP. PLEASE. PLEASE STOP! IT HURTS! IT HURTS OH GOD IT HURTS- IT HURTSITHURTSNOMOREPLEASE-** _

His eyes flew open, body jerking forward into the table. The force to his midsection cut off his choked yelp and left him bent nearly in half over the table. Graves’ arms were barely supporting his weight and his shoulders shook with the strain as he stared wide-eyed at the sheet of paper in front of him, chest heaving with the force of his gasps. It was when the world started blurring again that Graves vaguely felt his body being maneuvered back onto his chair. A solid, grounding weight was set over his thighs and warmth enveloped him. He could feel a soft, rhythmic beating under his fingertips and the steady movement of life against his palm. Breathing, he later registered.

Slowly, his mind came back to the present, put at ease as he was embraced in the warmth and reassurance of life. Which so happened to come in the form of a lanky magizoologist sitting on his lap, one arm wrapped tightly around his body, a hand stroking his hair, and the other clutching his hand that was pressed against the vested chest as gentle reassurances and sweet nothings were whispered in his ear. Needless to say, Percival Graves was a little more than surprised.

It must have shown because a second later, the (very attractive) magizoologist (unfortunately) unwound himself from the embrace to lean back and look over the recently distressed director. His bright hazel-green eyes scans over his tired face and _sees (Grindelwald used to mock him and ask what worth did he have as the Director of Magical Security if even his_ own people _couldn't tell the difference between him and the darkest wizard of all time? He refuses to admit how much that question struck him)_. Sees his pale complexion, taking in the dark purple smudges and gaunt cheeks.

“Director Graves, sir… Are you… Feeling better?”

Graves stared into the enchanting eyes, feeling his heart stutter at its intensity before whispering a small “yes”. Clearing his throat against the rasp he felt, the director spoke again, tone firmer, “Ye.. Yes.”

If possibly, the intensity in the other’s gaze increased, as if prying past shields and guards to check for lies. Graves meets the heavy gaze, eyes clearer than it had been in the past couple hours. The younger Scamander must have found the answer satisfying enough because soon, his face became an alarming shade of red when he realizes what position they were still currently in, and promptly jumped off, nearly tripping with the movement. In an instant, he was back to being the shy, anxious magizoologist, with fiery hair curtained over skittish eyes and a stutter that couldn’t seem to leave his tongue.

“T-terribly sorry director, sir, I d-didn’t mean to do anything horrible- Not that straddling you was horrible- I was just- uh, that is to say– ah-”

The blush that highlighted his cheeks turned a shade darker, and Graves finally took pity on the poor bloke. He reached out a hand, placing it on the bony shoulder, effectively stopping the magizoologist, whom at the moment was biting his lip hard with eyes so wide they look like they’re trying to escape his eye-sockets. The comically adorable image had him huffing out a small chuckle,

“Thank you, Mr. Scamander, I appreciate what you did for me.”

“U-Um, it’s no problem at all, really. I-I’m rather used to taking care of my beasts when they are in distress and-” His eyes widen again, as if realizing he made a grave (haha, see that pun?) error, “Not that you are a beast! Far from it- I just meant- t-taking care of them is a calming hobby. A-And I’m not implying your s-situation was convenient for me- I meant that, ah,”

Graves found himself looking over the other fondly as the shy man stuttered and tripped over his words, trying to justify, with growing horror, what was being said. Again, deciding to save this impossible man from himself, he holds up a hand, halting the red-head mid sentence,

“Whatever the reason, thank you.”

It was then that the other looked up, meeting Graves eyes with a gentle expression that had the director’s breath catching again. Finding some form of confidence in the spoken appreciation, the magizoologist takes a deep breath as if readying himself.

“What I meant to say was; I… Often spend time with my Animals when I feel the world becomes overwhelming. I find that the manual labor and their straightforward, yet loving nature improves my mood by several notches.” He then pauses, swallowing, “What I really want to say is… Would you like to join me down in my case? I think it would be, ah, relaxing and therapeutic.”

“I can’t possibly invade-”

“Oh! It isn’t an invasion at all! I did offer, after all!”

“Well, there is just so much to be done still and I really don’t–”

He cuts himself short as he peers into those beautiful pools. The stained-glass eyes shine with a fragile sort of anticipation, having no doubt faced rejection too many times (and who in their right might would ever reject this sweet creature?). Hesitantly, he nods, sighing inwardly in defeat. Graves is rewarded with the most blinding smile he has ever seen.

“Excellent!” Instantly, there is a hand delicately holding his wrist, tugging him along

“Hold on, Mr. Scamander-”

“Newt.”

“…What?”

“Call me Newt.”

Graves takes a glance and the quickly reddening cheeks and can’t help the small small that tugs at the corner of his own lips.

“Percival.”

“…Pardon?”

“Please, then, call me Percival… Newt.”

The magizoolo-Newt smiles at him then, a small gentle one. But his eyes sparkle like jewels and when his tongue curls around the vowels and consonants of his name, “Percival” mouth delicate in its movement, the director shudders, a full body thing.

Percival thinks that smile is worth the nightmares.

Later that night, the duo lay atop the grass of Newt’s self-made ecosystems (Percival is in awe with the magic it must have taken, no matter how humble the other is about it). The stars twinkle against the dark sky, and Percival thinks they must be a reflection of the constellations marking Newt’s freckled skin.

Percival looks at the moon and thinks of how brilliantly it emulates Newt’s complexion. Now Percival isn’t the type to pine and fantasize over others like a love-struck teenager.

But Percival looks at Newt and thinks he is a gift upon this world, so dark and stained.

Percival looks at Newt and thinks he is worth sacrificing for.

**Author's Note:**

> I know this isn't that good! Sorry, it's my first and I don't quite know how to write...  
> Don't be afraid to tell me if I got something wrong! I'll try to fix it whenever possible  
> Or even if you have ideas on how to improve, or ideas for a possible next fic...
> 
> I appreciate you taking the time to read this!  
> Thank you so much!


End file.
